The Way Back to Happiness by Elizabeth Bass Page B

early June. The tenth.
    The day Diana died?
    Spooked panic gripped her as she stared at this missive from beyond. How . . . ?
    A breathless moment passed before realistic possibilities occurred to her.
    Probably, by the time the letter was sent on its way, Bev was already in St. Louis, and Diana had been gone for twenty-four hours.
    She lurched for the kitchen table and sat down, unable to pull her gaze from the envelope. No zip code, of course. No return address. And Diana had gotten her address all wrong, putting down a street name and number that Bev had lived at when she’d taught, briefly, in San Angelo. 202 Oak Street. The number was scratched out, and the street name. Evidently, the person at 202 Oak Street, New Sparta, had started to open it before realizing the error. Bev had done that once, and had foolishly worried that the postal police would come after her. Maybe this envelope had sat in a drawer before the person taped up the damage and sent it back.
    Someone at the post office, someone who knew Bev, must have finally gotten hold of it, because the correct street address appeared in red ink in another hand.
    Light-headed and feeling compelled to move, Bev stood, paced to the living room, then pushed aside a bag of buttons and other notions so she could lower herself into a chair at the dining room table. She tapped the letter against the tabletop. Diana had never written her in all these years. What was this—a parting shot? A final dig?
    She ripped open the envelope and pulled out a piece of spiral notebook paper with fringe still clinging to the left side. One corner bore a jagged tear from when the sheet had been ripped out. Typical Diana not to bother with stationery. Or neatness. Although this penmanship was beyond bad. It was frightening. Blue ink dipped down the page and up again, heedless of lines, a weaving car of text. Bev frowned and flipped the page. The erratic childish scrawl covered both sides. And then her gaze snagged on the last line.

    I’m at the end of my rope, Bevvie.

    She turned the paper back over and slapped it down on the table. Vodka and lemonade churned in her stomach.
    Could this be the missing suicide note?
    No. Diana’s death had been an accident. Had to have been—for all the reasons she and her mom had discussed.
    But why after all these years would Diana decide to write her, out of the blue, right before her fatal accident? Wasn’t that too much of a coincidence?
    From the beginning, Bev had suspected suicide. But then she’d met Alabama at the camp, and she doubted. No matter what Diana had done wrong in life, she’d always kept her daughter close. Alabama had been her life. She wouldn’t have abandoned her like that.
    Or would she?
    She wasn’t sure she wanted to know. Cold dread filled her. Dread and cowardice. Maybe it would have been better if the letter had stayed lost. But now that the thing was in her possession, what choice did she have but to read it?
    It was hard to keep her hand steady as she picked up the page again. Her heart jackhammered, and her eyes strained to focus on the words.

    Dear Bev,
    You’ll probably think I’m crazy, writing to you after all these years. Swear to God, I’m not. You won’t believe that.
    Maybe you won’t even open this letter. You’ll see it’s from me and toss it. Please don’t do that.
    Knowing you, you’ve been wanting an apology from me all these years. Well, here it is. I’m sorry. Really, really sorry. There. But it feels so small, not nearly enough. Do you believe it? Would you believe it if I told you that I’ve felt that way for a long time? How long I don’t know. Longer than you’d think. Since around the time I realized I had screwed up my life pretty much for good and all. I tried to do my best after that, to make up for all the things I messed up earlier, but I guess I didn’t go about it the right way. I thought I could keep going forward without bothering to fix things, fix us, and repair all the